Dew on Leaves
by Poseidon's Daughter
Summary: Victor speaks with Emma five times. Origins-verse


Post Notes: Trying to get back into the groove of writing. I attempted to keep everyone in character but, well...ultimate resultes are still pending, I suppose.

Anyway, feedback, even a word or two, would be a _grea_t help. I'm not even joking.

....And mostly I just really, really, REALLY, wanted to try this :)

Timeframe / plot wise / characterization = _X-Men Origins: Wolverine – verse._

_

* * *

  
_

**Dew on Leaves. **

**

* * *

  
**

It happens on the day that the young man escapes – that Remy character, that New Orleans rogue, that drawling prince of the bayou– _that_ is the first time Emma sees _Him_.

The soldiers search Gambit's (because that is what they call Remy: Gambit) small cell for what must be the fourteenth time. The magician, the showman himself, wherever he may be, remains long gone and the military are left with only shadow clues and unanswerable questions. The lock is not even properly broken. After all, the lock, as are their fence-like prison walls, is adamantium. Nigh indestructible. So no. The lock is not broken. It cannot be broken. The stupidly mechanical bit of it was merely held apart at the hinges by a kinetically charged deuce of diamonds. Just enough pressure to spring the trap, the cage, and voilá! Better run boy, run, the Promised Land is a calling and She waits for no one. Better run like the devil. Run, flee, fly, le diable blanc.

Of course, to his credit, Remy _did_ initially pause in front of the others. _Attempted_ to assist his brethren by way of genetic captivity. Alas, the alarm went off and the guard was called before he even got started.

So Remy? Well, honestly, what did you expect him to do? Remy ran and he ran and he ran and now heads will roll because of it. ( No, Sir. Commander, Sir. We do not know how Gambit acquired the playing cards. No, Sir. We _never_ _played_ with the mutant. No, Sir. Never us, Sir. )

And while this scene unfolds, while answers are demanded, and faces turn red from shouting, _He_ watches. Amidst the chaos and confusion, the screaming and the yelling, _He_ is there. A part of, and yet apart from, the military men, he leans against the chain-linked wall of _her_ cell. Causal. Calm. In spite of his failed interference, his un-apprehended quarry, he remains, seemingly, darkly amused by the entire situation.

And her.

Disturbingly enough.

Every so often his head turns, eyes chancing over the girl so steadfastly ignoring him. Not an easy task by any means. But, as do all the other caged mutants, she keeps her eyes forward, to all outward sources completely enthralled by the way the men go over inch of every inch of Remy's escape route.

The man snorts, he is not fooled for a second,

"Hey." Impatience and gruffness crest over each other in an ocean swell, "What's your name?"

A small thing, she is. Young. White-blonde hair falling into her face like a curtain, knees drawn up to her chest. There's a stubborn tilt to her chin that he isn't quite sure he likes. … even so, she seems to shock herself when she looks up long enough to bite out, "Emma."

"Emma." He repeats and now, with a twist of the lips, he's smiling. Smiling, smiling, smiling. It is a crocodile smile, meant to charm, meant to disarm. Inviting and welcoming and predatory and fatally damning all at once. That is all he is, really. False security and damnation and monsters in the dark, "That's a real pretty name, Emma."

The youth remains silent.

"So." Where her gaze wavers his is patronizingly steady, "You gonna tell me how that boy broke out of here, Emma?"

Where her gaze wavers, _her voice_ is steady, "No."

She has pleased him somehow. Earned approval. Surprised him, maybe. His chuckle surprises _her,_ at least. All simmering smoke fire, so sudden and smoldering low it hums inside her bones.

"Good girl."

The next time she thinks to look up, his attention is once more focused on the soldiers.

* * *

He makes the connection during their second encounter, a full two years later.

With the girl perched atop an operating table, a white-garbed woman jabs a needle into Emma's skin – Emma's pink and healthy and _normal_ skin – drawing a small amount of blood. Behind the scientist, a detail of three armed military men stand at attention – overseeing, chaperoning, making sure the mutant doesn't _try_ anything during this bi-monthly checkup.

And _Him_. He is there too. Moonstone dirty in the oppressive fluorescent lighting, his skin being all kinds of blues, yellows, and horribly, horribly pale. Even his eyes are _only just_ darkly bright. And it is at that point she realizes Stryker, at least in some way, regards Emma as a potential threat. The soldiers are formality. The soldiers are show. _He_ is the muscle, the brawn. _He _is the weapon. For should Emma indeed attempt to _try_ something, bullets would do them no good, bullets would not stop her. Bullets would not harm her.

_He_ would, though. He could. Diamond Skin, he could still break her like a twig. He would snap her scrawny neck and pretty little Diamond Skin would be nothing but a pretty little pile of Diamond Dust.

As she is thinking this, he grins and bares his teeth, finally noticing her stare, more grimace than smile. The only thing alive about him in these lights, she decides then, is his mouth. Red and wet and slick. An inviting trap.

It is when Emma is shoving her naked arm back into the burgundy fatigue jacket that he speaks, voice carrying across the room, "You're a Silverfox."

Only the slight nod of the girl child's head indicates that she has heard him.

"Half." She eventually admits, followed a moment later by, "I'm a Frost."

* * *

It's the dead of night and there is a reek of bourbon, of rotting meat, when he comes to her the third time. Of pine trees and damp earth. She can smell him from ten feet away. It has only been a week.

Eyes dancing, fangs flashing, he bangs both fists against the web-spun adamantium; rattles and jostles her walls. By way of greeting he peers down at her and sniffs, gravelly taunting,

"Your sister says hello."

Emma does not get a chance to respond. Still sleepy slow, her eyes go the size of saucers and he is already bored of her. Done with her. The morbid mask cracks and he is tossing his head and slapping his hands together. He is moving past. As simply and as suddenly as that, the man is stomping and storming out of view. The nearby mutants cringe when his crowing, un-lovely laughter pierces their silence – shatters it – giddy elated by something Emma does not understand.

"Hear that? S'your move now, Jimmy-boy!"

* * *

Four days pass and _He_ enters their prison with a swagger and a carcass thrown across his shoulders.

By this point in time Emma's hair is un-salvageable. Too greasy gross, too stringy limp. A slow death by neglect, she can hardly stand it. The standard issue soap they give her to wash with suffices for her body but for her hair…? No. Not so much. Proper conditioner seems like a dream from another life. As it is, she simply ties her hair back away from her face, securing it in a tight bun.

It is not until that mountain of a man unlocks the empty cell next to hers that Emma notes it is not a corpse. It is a boy he has there. An unconscious, sedated, _boy_.

…And she is curious in spite of herself. Moving to the edge of her small cell, allowing her body to lean heavily against the side; her fingers curl about the chain-links, gazing out across the short space.

He catches her eye and winks, slinging the unknowing boy around like a sack of potatoes, laying him out flat on the ground. A moment later his voice booms, "You excited, Emma?"

He's mocking her but that's nothing new. Her tone is quieter than it ought to be, instantly suspicious, "Why?"

"'Cause you got a new roommate." The back of the boy's skull hits the concrete floor with an audible 'thump', "That's why."

The _boy_, as it were, is more of a young man, really. Her age, give or take a year. Unshaven with a shock of chestnut hair, he has already been outfitted in their standard red mutant jumpsuit… and his eyes…

Her gaze snaps back up to _Him_, "Is he hurt?"

"No more than the rest of you."

Emma lets her arms drop, takes a step back from the edge, feeling suddenly silly for her obvious eagerness. She tilts her chin up, attempts to reclaim a bit of dignity and finds herself echoing a question already asked, "...What's your name?"

And now he's smiling again – all red mouth and glittering teeth. Common sense dictates that one does _not_ smile back at crocodiles … yet something about the way he tips his head, the wave of his hands…Emma cannot stop from wondering if crocodiles ever have a whisper of a gentleman about them and, if so, do the same rules still apply?

- But it's _only_ a whisper, sewn into the seams of that dark coat of his, and Emma quickly disregards it. Besides… even if a crocodile could be a gentleman, there is still that pesky fact stating that a _cat_ is _not_ a crocodile.

"Victor."

And make no mistake; Victor **is** a great feral beast of a cat.

* * *

"I wanna see it."

Crouched in front of her cell, elbows resting on thighs, hands loosely clasped from where they dangle between his knees, Victor stares at her. For once, with his bulk folded in upon itself, _looks up_ at her. It has been three days.

There is no way to ignore him this time. No pretense. She stares back, genuinely puzzled by his request. There is a slight twist to her bow lips that causes them to appear off-center, "See what?"

"What makes you Emma, Emma." Victor does not even blink, "I want to **see **it."

She understands before she comprehends. It does not even occur to her to refuse.

So she takes a step closer to edge of the cage, towards him, unzips the burgundy fatigue jacket; lets it fall.

- There is brief second between heartbeats when Victor lingers. When eyes roam over naked arms and too skinny shoulders, flickers across breasts and collarbones and clinging white tops. -

And then she is radiant.

She is brilliant. Blinding. Diamond Skin. Diamond Dust. Ten million mirrors break across her fingernails while every terrible Marilyn movie ever made plays out against her hairline. Aurora Borealis – a maid in shining armor – the mist made lover- the white queen- shifting crystalline sands. Hope manifested, the miracle over Bethlehem. The angel lighted star. Orion and Andromeda and Perseus by way of constellations. Cocktail rings and champagne. She lights up like Vegas. Luminous Vega. The Eiffel Tower after dark. She is the first snowfall of winter and the last spring rain.

She's beautiful.

And just as quickly, she is Emma again. Skin and blood and eyes and waiting, watching as Victor briefly inclines his head and rumbles,

"Kayla will collect you soon."

Beast and man and cat and gentleman and crocodile and captor and beast and man and cat and gentleman and crocodile and captor and beast and over and over and over again – he stands, turns away. He is leaving and she wants the last word. For the first time _in her life_ Emma wants the last word.

...It is an almost desperate challenge, a wavering, lilting, haughty taunt when she slams a furious palm against the chain links of her cage:

"You should see me in the sunlight!"

( Four hours from now and thirty thousand feet in the air, Emma Frost will belatedly realize she is still holding Scott Summers hand. )

He does not stop, does not turn. Simply chuckles, so sudden and smoldering low it hums inside her bones.

"Good girl."

* * *

**Dew on Leaves: End.**

**

* * *

  
**


End file.
